


Vigorous and hard to kill

by Toruviel



Category: Discworld - Terry Pratchett
Genre: Alternate Universe, Character Death, F/M, M/M, Politics, Sort Of, The People's Revolution of the Glorious Twenty-Fifth of May, Time Travel, of sorts
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-05-25
Updated: 2019-07-17
Packaged: 2020-03-17 11:42:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 8,346
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18964540
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Toruviel/pseuds/Toruviel
Summary: The Glorious 25th of May was here, again, and there was nothing glorious about it. There was nothing glorious about broken skin and broken timelines and broken people.But, perhaps, there was something to be salvaged from the wreckage.A "Night Watch" AU where Vimes remains stuck in the past.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> It's not a happy piece. And it's about time travel because it's me. It is only about half-way finished, but 25th pf May seemed like a good time to post it. I have no beta, so all mistakes are my own.
> 
> Enjoy and please send me a line after, I welcome all constructive criticism (and flattery. Flattery is good too.)

There were screams and movement and Carcer, hacking his way to young Sam, there were bodies in Vimes' way, too many to quickly cut down, too many to- There were a yell and a triumphant laugh and a sickening sound of metal piercing flesh again and again and again, and the gurgle and whizzing and- And then-

And then there was coldness and piercing silence.

 

***

 

He came to and sized the hand on his arm. The skin was hot and slippery under his fingers. He blinked, blinked again, refocused. The narrow wrist in his grasp was covered in blood.

He leaned over and tried to retch, but there was nothing in his stomach, nothing- He gagged, the world swimming in and out of focus, the cobblestones under him dark and shiny. Familiar. He was- He tried to focus.

He was in an alley. Yes, Cable Street, Ankh-Morpork. He was dirty and exhausted, and some bugger must have had hit him in the head, but he was-

He was dead.

He froze, meeting the glassy eyes of Lance-Constable Vimes. He stared at the white face, too still and too young, at the skinny body made grotesque by deep cuts, so many of them, the breastplate wrenched away, the insides spilling out, the stink-

He was dead.

The wrist in his hand moved, subtly and just enough to slip. Vimes tightened his grasp, moved his thumb and dug in, a distant part of him noting the slight spasm of pain. The rest of him was still busy looking at his own surprised face, so young, so bloody naïve, so-

Dead.

"You may let go, sergeant," a voice said, cool and calm and too bloody familiar, by the gods- "I have no intention of leaving just yet."

He looked over and stared.

Vetinari, young and angular and blood-splattered, stared right back.

"Are you hurt? I couldn't see any wounds, but the conditions are hardly ideal for a proper examination."

"The hell…?" he grounded out.

"Are you hurt?"

Did being dead count?

"No, demons take it! I'm just dandy!" he barked, finally letting go of the offending hand and shifting, slowly sitting up and- Nope. The light dimmed, the ringing in his eyes intensified and he decided that staying put could be considered a better option. Just for a moment.

He looked around.

It was carnage.

The street was quiet, the dead and dying clustered together, watchmen and Carcer's men alike. Wiglet was there, struck down by arrows, and so was Ned Coates, hands still on a throat of some thug, and he could hear Nobby Nobbs throwing up noisily down the alley. A few figures were stirring, grasping, whimpering. One soldier was doing his best to raise despite no longer having his left leg.

Young Sam was still clutching a sword in one white, dead hand.

"If you can stand, we need to go."

He barely spared Vetinari a glance, too busy looking for, searching- He had to be there, he simply had to- Where-

"Where is Carcer?" he barked, voice hoarse from yelling. "Where _is_ he?"

There was a moment of silence.

"Over there," Vetinari said, inclining his head behind Vimes. "He was stuck down while trying to run."

"He's _dead_?"

That bastard! He was supposed to hang, _Vimes_ was supposed to make sure he hung for his crimes! Then again, Vimes was also supposed to protect the history and his younger self so he could bloody well return to his own time, only now young Vimes was _dead_ -

"Not quite yet," Vetinari said quietly.

Vimes, the older one, the alive one- No. He wouldn't think about it. Not now. He wouldn't think about it, or he'd go insane.

Vimes rose, slowly and ungainly, cursing with a breath he could hardly spare. He rose and staggered over to- to the corpse of Lance-Constable Vimes. Without a word he picked up the old sword and turned, slowly, so very slowly walking to the body at the mouth of the street.

Carcer was lying on his back, one hand clutching at his middle, dark blood staining his hands and the ground below. The other hand was still holding a dagger. _Of course_ the other hand was holding a dagger.

"Your grace," Carcer croaked when he saw Vimes, a mad, mad grin twisting his lips, lightening up his eyes. "What fun, eh? Haha! What bloody good fun!"

Vimes said nothing.

"Some bedamned fool caught me in the back. No respect, no respect at all," Carcer taunted, blood in his teeth, smeared over his face. How much of it belonged to young Sam? "No respect at all for the finesse of the game, haha! No- no respect for you, Duke. Who are you going to arrest now?"

Vimes said nothing. The sword in his hand was heavy.

"You going to kill me? With- with this sword? At least you could use a dagger, haha- agh… C- come on, your grace. For old time's sake."

Vimes' hand trembled.

"Young Vimes certainly won't be arresting nobody now. Haha!"

The beast roared. Vimes took a step closer, hand raising, sword lifting- Young Sam Vimes was dead, _dead,_ everything had gone wrong, his future was _gone,_ Carrot and Angua and Cherry and _Sybil and their child_ were gone-! Everyone was gone- Everyone-

He stuck. Carcer's dagger skittered away, leaving a dark smear on the cobblestones, the other hand battered away, the second dagger dropped by Vimes' boots.

Vimes wasn't gone. And he was more than the beast.

"You always have a second dagger, Carcer," he growled.

Both hands away, the blood from Carcer's guts trickled faster, the pool around him spreading.

"A man's got to- ugh… got to try, your grace."

"I'm not going to kill you, Carcer. I don't have to. The city has killed you, after all."

Carcer tried to laugh and choked, blood spotting his chin. He grinned, unhinged and malicious to the last.

"At least I won’t be dying alone."

He chocked again, whizzed. Tried to curl up. Spasmed and went still.

Vimes waited, watching the hated grin fade, the clenched fists relax. He watched and waited until he was sure, absolutely bloody sure, that the bastard was dead.

"Damn it all to hell," he muttered at least.

He turned away, dirty and hurting and hollowed out and- Not dead. Maybe not dead, but- Lost.

"If you are quite done, your grace?"

He startled, looking at young Vetinari blankly. He had quite forgotten he was here. Dangerously stupid, that.

"You don't know me, but I was sent by your friends," Vetinari said, unbothered by Vimes' silence. "Lord Snapcase has ordered your death."

"I know," he grunted.

Slowly, he made his way back to the centre of the mess, looking around for any wounded that could still use help. It was hard to tell. Hard to move, his body protesting and turning to stone. The blood on him was cooling.

"You know," Vetinari repeated slowly.

"Not really surprising," Vimes muttered. "Snapcase is a devious devil. And a politician."

"Be as it may, your grace, you cannot stay here."

"Sergeant-at-arms," ha had enough brain to protest, leaning against the wall.

"I'm sure."

He looked at Vetinari, standing calmly just outside his reach, young and wiry and for once not dressed in black robes. He did not belong in dank alleys. He seemed unreal.

"There will be search parties, once Captain Carcer fails to return with your head. You need to leave the city."

Leave. Ha.

"Not bloody likely," he growled. "'M not goin' anywhere."

Except perhaps to bed. When was the last time he had slept? Eaten? But there would be work to do, people to take care of and other people to yell at and no one else who would do it. He straightened and started to make his careful way to the Watch House. The ground under his feet felt rubbery.

He could sense more than hear Vetinari following.

"You are behaving irrationally. Letting Snapcase kill you would be a waste."

"Bett- Smarter and more dangerous people than him had tried."

"The new patrician has the will of the city behind him and many resources. Some of them of the torturous variety, I'm given to understand."

"No, he has the city's _ignorance_ behind him," Vimes grumbled. "And the city's hope. Once the people understand that he's just another Winder in a better waistcoat, there's going to be trouble. You can't keep the whole damn city by threatening to break its knees."

For a few moments there was no response, but Vimes knew Vetinari hadn't left. The weight of that stare would be enough to keep a corpse aware of his presence.

"What do you intend to do then, your grace?"

He wished he had an answer. He swayed, tried to push on and then slowly, gently, slid into unconsciousness.

888

Sir Samuel Vimes, Sergeant-at-Arms John Keel, his grace the Duke of Ankh, Lace-Constable Sam Vimes, The Commander of the City Watch-

 _He_ slept. And dreamed.

There were voices and a wavery light, sharp and piercing. Pictures, still and unreal. Faces, moments, whispers…

There was a voice, distinct and familiar. Strangely hurried.

"-en, Mister Vimes, you must listen! Are you listening? Good. No, don't interrupt! We don't have much time, we're out of time. Sam Vimes is out of time."

He tried to interrupt. His voice wouldn't work. Did he even have a mouth?

"Sam Vimes of this time is dead, Cancer killed him. That you know. But what's important now are the implications, the- let's call them vibrations. The consequences. Sam Vimes is dead, and his future is inaccessible."

Not gone?

"That future is still somewhere out there, in another leg of the trousers of time. Of some trousers of time. It's too far removed to be accessed from this universe, where Sam Vimes never reached his seventeenth birthday. It cannot be done."

He tried to close his eyes, his ears. He didn't want to listen.

There was a great, deep swoosh, long and loud. Not loud enough to totally drown out the voice.

"-don't make it more difficult, Mister Vimes! It's hard enough as is. Now, in this time, in this place, Sam Vimes is dead, and he'll never meet and love Lady Sybil, not as you know her. That's true. But he'll also never give Golems their voice, or stop a war, or bring the law into the wild. He'll never become the Commander, he'll never change the City Watch, he'll never teach new coppers how to be good coppers. He'll never shape Ankh-Morpork."

What did he care, when future, _his and Sybil's_ future was gone, closed to him…

The voice continued, urgent, the accent getting stronger in its hurry.

"One man's future is easy to misplace, but cities and countries are different. Cities bend the universe around themselves a bit, put everything into their orbit. They are important. Ankh-Morpork was supposed to change with Sam Vimes."

Sam Vimes was dead.

"John Keel lives! John Keel lives, is part of the pattern, and he knows the city, knows its streets. Knows what it could become. And he's probably the only man bull-headed enough to push the city towards these changes."

He was tired.

"Are you going to ignore your duty, Commander? Ignore the oath you swore?"

He was tired and lost and old, too old to change anything, even if had wanted to. It had taken almost thirty years and Vetinari as the Patrician, there was no way…

"The history will find the way. The city wants these changes, is _ready_ for them. It'll help you. You just need to do your job."

Hadn't he done enough? Demons take it all. Demons and damnation, he bloody well had enough.

"The people you love are still going to be born, to live in this city. Are you going to let them live under Snapcase? Under Watch in hands of Knocks and Quirkes and _Swings_ of the world?"

…That bastard. That bloody bastard!

"There's a job in front of you, sergeant-at-arms Keel."

By all the gods, he really was…

"Good luck."

He woke.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A big thank you to everyone who read and left a comment or some kudos, you guys make my day. No beta, all mistakes are mine.

Motionless, merging into the shadows by the window, Havelock watched the man calling himself sergeant Keel wake.

It was sudden, a jerk that ended in a moan, the man trying to curl into himself, one hand moving towards his bandaged head. The other reached toward his bedside, gripping empty air.

"Can I get you anything, sir?" the maid asked.

Keel stiffened, cursed hideously.

"Where the buggery fuck am I? _What happened?"_

He turned, eyes locking on the girl. She shrank back a little, her mending forgotten.

"Sir?"

There was a momentary silence, as Keel visibly bit back the first response. Finally, he nodded and relaxed against the pillows.

"Sorry, miss. I- I could use some water," he said, voice curiously gentle. "And then- hm, then something to eat. I wouldn't say no to a bath and a shave either."

"Yes, sir," the maid handed him a glass from a nearby table, rose and curtsied. "I'll tell the mistress that you're awake and inform the kitchen. Won't be a moment, sir."

"Thank you."

The instant the maid's hurried footsteps faded down the corridor, Keel was sitting up, grimacing and tense, eyes scanning the room. They lingered on the doors and windows, on a sharp letter opener and heavy paperweight lying on a desk. He put his feet down on the floor, glanced at the white nightshirt. Stared at his hands, cursory cleaned and treated, blood still stuck under his fingernails. Cursed softly.

"Come out of there," he ordered without looking up.

Havelock hesitated. Keel looked up, straight at him.

Havelock came out.

The man calling himself sergeant Keel observed him with a stony expression, hands resting softly on the bed.

"I hope I'm still in Ankh-Morpork."

Havelock inclined his head. Getting an unconscious, heavy man out to somewhat dubious safety without attracting any attention had been interesting. Transporting him out of the city on a lockdown would approach challenging. Besides, Keel had insisted on staying, and Havelock was… curious.

"My men?"

 _His_ men indeed.

"Seven dead on your side," he said. "The rest are mostly unharmed and not making any noise, so there's a chance of them staying that way."

Keel nodded, eyes sling sideways, to the windows. Despite the golden afternoon light filling in, the streets behind were deadly silent.

"Snapcase?"

"Sworn in as the Patrician and making himself at home at the Palace, least I heard."

"I bet he is. Like a rat in a garbage dump," Keel muttered. He looked back at Havelock. "You got a name?"

Havelock smiled slightly.

"Most people do."

The doors opened, and Madame walked in.

She shot him a brief, surprised look, before smiling warmly at the man in the bed.

"Sergeant Keel," she greeted, sitting down in the abandoned chair. Her violet dress rustled softly. "How do you feel?"

"Like someone bashed my head in," Keel snapped, eyes flying between Havelock and his aunt. "What the devil is happening? Where am I?"

"You're a guest at my house. A secret guest, since the new Patrician has ordered your execution."

Keel grunted, face expressionless.

"I sent my dear nephew to retrieve you. I'm glad to see him succeed," Madame paused, refilling a glass with water and handing it to Keel. "No need to thank me."

Keel drunk, slowly, dark eyes locked on Madame.

"I won't," he said, finally. He held the glass in a white-knuckled grip. "You didn’t send him out for my sake, after all."

"Oh?"

"Why lose a useful pawn? Especially since your last game has just gone sour," Keel smiled without any humour. "Let me guess. Snapcase didn’t give you your guild."

"He's re-evaluating the city's needs," Madame replied stiffly.

"Sure he is."

The door opened with a brief knock and the maid entered, a full tray held before her. She carefully set it on the bedside table and withdrew. The klick of the door mechanism seemed loud in the sudden silence.

Keel tucked in with the enthusiasm of a man who hadn't eaten in two days. For all his speed, his table manners were better than Havelock had expected.

"It seems," his aunt said at length, "that Lord Snapcase is quick to acquire the basic principles of authority."

"Hm?"

"To discard any promises as they become inconvenient to you," Madame said, calmly pouring tea into two teacups. "To trust no one and to dispose of any and all threats immediately."

Keel paused with a spoon halfway to his mouth.

"No," he replied, rubbing the bridge of his nose. "These are the rules of dictatorship, not authority."

"True leaders are hard to come by," Madame said quietly.

"Well, bugger for you. Should have been sure of him, before making him the Patrician. Now it’s too late."

"Perhaps. Through its early days still. His position is by no means assured, his support is contingent on his conduct and decisions. And these are not too inspiring."

"Too late," Keel shook his head. "You put him in the Oblong Office, you'll have to live with him. Or not, as it were."

"You don't seem too concerned," Madame said, delicate like a butterfly's wings. "Taking into account that he wants you dead."

"I can take care of myself."

"Against the absolute ruler of the city?"

A strange expression crossed Keel's face, a smile like a post-mortal contortion. He shrugged, attention drifting back to his meal.

"It's early days still," Madame repeated slowly, almost absent-mindedly, apparently contemplating nothing more serious than the inside of her teacup. It didn't fool Havelock for a second.

Keel didn't react.

"Lord Snapcase has been busy at the Palace, changing chairs and choosing new tapestries," Madame mused. "Too busy to meet with the Guild leaders, too busy to remember his promises. Though he managed to appoint his closest friends into key positions in the military and public sector. There is quite a number of… dissatisfied former officials, as one can expect."

Keel didn't react.

"The streets are still… turbulent. There were deaths at the hands of the soldiers, fires and robberies all over the city. With the exception of the quarter controlled by you, of course. The word has travelled around."

It was quite remarkable, the extent to which Keel didn’t react.

"There are some who would consider Lord Snapcase as… not an ideal choice for the Patrician. That would aspire to see something, some _one,_ better in the Oblong Office."

Keel put his spoon down, very deliberately. The delicate, slightly bent handle clicked against the bowl, ghastly loud.

"So," drawled Keel with a deep breath, "you _just_ finished one coup and you want to start another. You want to have people fighting and _dying_ on the streets, again. Just because your new best friend turns out to be, ha! a callous, scheming bastard, which, by the way, I'd have thought to be expected of a Patrician, an asset, really… But so sorry, I forgot. He wasn't supposed to be callous towards _you._ He wasn't supposed to break _your_ hopes, to spit in _your_ face. Dear me, however will you survive?"

"Better than most, certainly," Madame replied quietly. "I have the means and the experience, I shall manage. Ordinary people may not be so lucky."

"You don’t give a rat's ass about ordinary people."

"But you do, sergeant. Should Snapcase turn out to be everything we despised in Winder, how well do you imagine your precious people will handle it? He wants to bring back the Unmentionables, you know. After everything you and your brave men went through-"

"Don't."

Havelock saw his aunt shift a fraction, lean back in her chair. The man calling himself sergeant Keel slowly unclenched his fists.

"Would it not be better to act now?" Madame asked softly. "To correct that mistake now, while his power is still uncertain, the people ready to fight?"

"You want to start another bloody revolution days after- We haven't even buried the dead! Parts of the city are still smoking! And here you want to start it all over again! Just to put _another_ selfish fool in the Palace!"

Havelock stepped closer on silent feet, trying to get a better view at Keel's face, at the furious glint in his eyes. Hurt, abandoned, _betrayed_ by those who should be lauding his accomplishments, and yet here he was, spitting and arguing, ready to bite the hand that would help him. So angry, so alone. So firm in his convictions, naive as they were.

Fascinating.

"To correct a mistake," his aunt said.

"And who is to say that the new Patrician would be any better than Snapcase? After all, you were so sure of _him_!"

"There are some possibilities amongst the guild leaders-"

"None of them would stand for the competition sitting in the Oblong Office, there would be a slaughter-"

"You spoke highly of Doctor Follett-"

"Ha! If you speak highly of a bat, it's only because he's preferable to a rat. A dead rat. And he's still a head of a guild, and too old besides-"

"Lord Rusty, while young-"

"By the gods!" Keel exclaimed, hands thrown in the air. "He may be a stupid idiot, but he's too arrogant to be easily controlled, you won’t have any use of him! And I'd rather burn the city down than leave it to him."

Madame smiled, face carefully smooth and congenial. Havelock noticed that her hand gripped the teacup rather tightly.

"The city has ways of dealing with- difficult rulers."

"Than you should use them to _deal with_ Snapcase," Keel huffed like a bull, one bandaged hand rubbing at his temple. "It's a stupid discussion, anyway. I'll not help you send this city into chaos again. It isn't my job."

"It was hardly your job to defend the barricades," Havelock injected, voice mild. Keel stilled and threw him a glare.

"I'm a watchman. My _job_ is to keep the peace."

Keel said it slowly, surely, like it was a law set in stone, a commandment writ in fiery letters in his soul. Havelock smiled slightly.

"Your job is to keep the peace," he repeated, tasting the words, the ironclad conviction ringing in them. "How will you do that under Snapcase?"

Keel gritted his teeth, glanced away towards the window and the deathly silent streets.

"I'll manage."

"How?" Havelock probed, stepping even closer, looking down at Keel. The man didn't rise, didn't get defensive, did nothing but look at him with these dark, angry eyes.

"The same as always, by the book," he replied, but the grimace twisting his face told a different story. "Starting _another_ bloody revolution and having even _more_ people die is the last thing the city needs. It would not guarantee-"

"You _would_ guarantee an improvement."

" _I_ don’t have any say over the Patrician, didn't we just-"

"As a Patrician, you would be an improvement."

Keel stopped, arrested mid-argument. His aunt shot Havelock a sharp look. There was a moment of stunned silence.

"What?" Keel whispered. "Have you lost your damn mind?"

"I don't believe so," Havelock replied quietly, eyes intend upon Keel. "The recent events showed your remarkable leadership skills. You had managed to take and maintain control over a vital part of the city, with nothing more than a handful of watchmen and some civilians."

"And a lot of luck," Keel parred, eyes narrowed, face stony. "And months of tension and fear making people stupidly brave. _And_ that's not the _bloody point_!"

"Isn't it?"

"Taking control in a crisis is not the same as- You cannot seriously entertain the idea that _I-_ "

"I do."

"No."

"The city-"

"No, demons take it!" Keel barked, getting on his feet, rage in every stiff movement. "I will not, I don't- Even if I tried, I wouldn't- I can't keep the machine running! I don't know how!"

"Indeed, your grace?" Havelock asked mildly.

Keel scowled at him.

"None of that" he ordered with an ease of a long habit. "I told you, taking command in a crisis is a matter of nerve and dumb luck. Running the whole damn _city_ would be a completely different bag of vipers."

Running the city, not _ruling_ it, Havelock noted with wonder. Did the man even realise just how unique that distinction made him?

"My nephew may have a point," his aunt injected, face again arranged into a controlled smile. "While- unorthodox, you can hardly be worse than an alternative."

"You don’t know that," Keep shook his head and walked over to his uniform, lying abandoned at the desk. He started going through the dirty cloth, saying absentmindedly:

"This whole discussion is preposterous, anyway. You'd never get the nobs or the guild leaders to back up a nobody like me, and I wouldn't take the job even with a lifetime supply of bacon sandwiches thrown in. There are some depths even a copper wouldn't sink to. Aha!"

Keel fished out a small cigar case, batterer but still recognizably silver and well-made. He turned it around and froze, face going white and grief-stricken for just a moment.

He didn't open it, just held it tightly in one trembling hand. Havelock wished with a sudden, burning sensation, that he had taken time to look through the man's possessions.

"I'm not going to meddle with politics. It's not my job," Keel finally ground out. "I've _got_ a job in front of me. A law to uphold, a peace to keep."

"Again, how much law do you imagine you'll find under Snapcase?" Madame sounded genuinely curious, gently nibbling on a biscuit.

"You might be right, but I can't- They gave me a truncheon," Keel said quietly. "When I become a watchman, they gave me a truncheon, not a sword. I'm supposed to uphold the laws, not create them."

"Even if they are bad laws?" Havelock asked just as quietly. "Bad orders?"

Keel looked away.

"It's not my job," he repeated. "It's that simple."

"Simple as a guillotine," Havelock's aunt raised her eyebrow. "Assuming, of course, that the Patrician won’t simply have you killed on sight."

"He's welcome to try. Now, thanks for your hospitality and all that, but where’s my bath?"

"You mean to leave? That would be most unwise."

"Because staying in a house of a known revolutionary and her assassin nephew with no weapons would be the height of good sense."

"You're safe here," Havelock said softly. Simple or not, Keel was… _interesting._ Letting him die now would be such a waste.

"I'm a sitting rat here, just waiting for a hungry dwarf to come over with a knife and ketchup," Keel snarked.

"Surely-"

A timid knock on the door interrupted his aunt.

The maid entered, arms full of bathing sheets, towels and other assortment necessaries. Havelock could spot a Boy waiting in the corridor, the copper bathing basin resting by his feet.

"Begging your pardon, mistress, but-"

"Ah, my bath is here! Wonderful. Thank you, miss, why don't you put everything over there, by the fire," Keel said, effortlessly taking control of the situation. Havelock had to admire his aplomb if nothing else. "Is there a razor among your treasures, by any chance? Great."

And just like that, he and his aunt were dismissed.

Madame rose stately, a warm smile plastered firmly in place.

"We'll leave you to your wash. I'm sure the dried blood must be itchy," she said. "Although I'd advise you to plan your next steps with care. Doing anything… rash would be ill-advised."

"Dunno about that," Keel muttered distractedly, apparently absorbed with setting up a shaving station by the mirror. "Planning was never my strong point."

"You don't say."

 


	3. Chapter 3

Vimes was almost senseless with fury.

He patrolled. That's what Watchmen _did_. He had always patrolled. Had always spent his nights out on the streets, in the rain and with a very real danger of getting his spleen handed to him by some enterprising citizen, even when he had a comfortable home and a loving wife to return to. It stood to reason that he would be patrolling now when he had nothing.

He was a bloody idiot.

Worse, he was a bloody idiot stuck in the past. Irreversibly, if he were to believe that bedamned monk.

He was a suspicious person by nature made a paranoid bastard by nurture, so he went back to that hidden temple. It wasn't there. Not only was it _not there_ , its place was occupied by a small works of dubious legality but obvious history. It hadn’t just appeared there yesterday, despite what Vimes memories told him. There were old graffiti on the walls and generations of cigarette stubs in the corners of the courtyard. Ye gods, there were small trees growing from buckets carelessly left by the walls!

So, those history monks, or history policemen, or _whoever_ , they weren't there to answer his questions, let alone help. Much good had it done him before.

He had considered going to the wizards. After all, it was their bleeding fault he was in this mess, their and that storm and that magical library of theirs! But- well. The Sweeper hadn't been wrong about the wizards. Vimes remembered them before Ridcully become the Archchancellor. They were Powerful and Important, which, in Vimes private dictionary, meant a bunch of arrogant tossers with no idea about the real life, no scruples, and no one to control them. Even Vetinari hadn't retaliated when they had turned him into a newt for a spell, and Vimes was hardly a Patrician. They probably wouldn't even spit on him.

So, he couldn't go back. He couldn't go back to the future, _his_ future, to the functioning Watch and more-or-less functioning city, to the bloody committees and the troubles with multi-species politics and sinking patrol boats, to his men and his home-home and _his Sybil-_

He stopped walking, just for a moment. The rage shook him too much to walk straight.

Alright. He was fine. Just dandy.

So, he was stuck. For now. What was he doing to do?

_"Are you going to let the people you love live under Snapcase? Under Watch in hands of Knocks and Quirkes and Swings of the world?"_

No. No way in hell. He wasn't _that_ stupid.

 

***

 

The sun had risen some time ago. People were gathering around the Palace. The new Patrician was about to make his first public speech.

Vimes stood in the crowd.

The people around him were throwing him rather obvious glances, but he ignored that with the ease of habit. Staring wasn't a crime. Neither was whispering and the frankly rude pointing, not until someone followed it with a stone throw or a good, old-fashioning stabbing.

His hand tightened around the cosh hidden in his pocket. His knuckles throbbed dully, bruised and barely scabbed over.

Finally, the Palace gates opened and Lord Snapcase stepped out. He was a tall, well built man, with a rather square face and painfully straight posture. His clothing was obnoxiously expensive, nothing like Vetinari's black set of robes. Vetinari, ha! Yes, he was sure to be somewhere here as well, lurking in some convenient shadow, all youthful angles and piercing eyes.

Vimes' other hand flexed on the handle of his sword, young Sam's sword. He kept his eyes fixed forward.

The Guild heads and civil leaders walked just a few steps behind Snapcase, dignified and smiling and so very supportive of the new leadership. They had never really kept with that dreadful old despot Winder, oh no sir, not them.

Vimes badly wanted a drink he couldn't have. He lit a cigar.

Snapcase stepped on the small platform and greeted his new subjects. Tall, proud, with an ornamental blade at his side. He all but glittered with newness.

His speech was everything Vimes had expected, keep the best of the old while encouraging the new, securing peace, prosperity, new chances, and so on, and so forth. He spoke well, with the kind of upper-class accent that was almost a yawn.

The crowd was silent.

"- and I promise you that the recent upheaval, understandable as it was, will not have a case to repeat itself while I am the Patrician! What's more-"

Words, words, words. All these useless, bloody words wasted by this pathetic excuse of a human being. Where were his words, Sybil's words?

"-sacrificed their lives. The early miscommunication, which resulted in the tragic death of our heroic Sergeant John Keel and a few others-"

"Lies! Bloody lies!"

Snapcase paused.

"…Pardon?"

Snapcase, unlike Rust, did not indulge in conveniently not noticing impossible insolence. He knew that it was often followed by an impossible insurgency. Foolish and doomed to failure, certainly, but still, why invite trouble, when you can cut it (a head) short beforehand?

"Which of you good people said that?"

"I did! Cause it's all bloody lies! Folks, don't listen to him! Don't-"

Snapcase didn't even have to give an order. The palace guards acted with the speed of people conscious of their recent failure and eager to pay for it with somebody else's blood.

Vimes, swallowed by the grim, silent crowd, watched them size and drag forward the stupid bugger who didn't know when to keep his trap shut. He wasn't even surprised to see it was Reg Shoe.

"He killed them, he bloody- ugh!"

One of the guards kneed Reg in the stomach, hard enough to silence him. Even dead people needed air to speak.

Snapcase smiled stiffly.

"Emotions run high in the wake of the recent tragedies," he allowed. "Let us not forget-" and he was off with the rest of his speech.

Vimes wasn't listening. He was too busy following the small unit of guards, pushing through the crowd with sharp elbows. They were not walking towards Snapcase, thanks gods, but they weren't making for the palace and the cells there, either.

"- the history will remember-"

They were making for the back of the palace, but why, there was nothing there, no backdoor to the dungeons, nothing-

No. There had been nothing there in Vimes' time. Now, _here_ , in this cracked reflection, there stood the public place of the executions, with whitened walls and gallows and a big basket to catch heads. Because, despite the Unmentionables and their many, many ways of breaking people, sometimes the local tyrant wanted to make a more public example out of some poor bugger.

And now a group of four bandits in uniform were dragging Reg Shoe to this place of pain and death and humiliation, to kill him again.

Vimes ran.

He didn’t _decide_ to, he didn't think, not about the crowd at his back, not about other armed bastards just waiting for an excuse. He didn't stop to wonder if you _could_ kill a zombie. He just ran.

The first guard didn't even have time to turn, a truncheon to the side of the head took him out quick and quiet. The next one got out a wide swing before a sharp hit in the kidneys brought his chin down to meet Vimes' knee.

Two down, two to go.

Only the other two looked at their two fallen comrades, at Vimes, angry and miserable and more than ready to spread it around, and let Reg go very, very quickly.

"Didn't mean anything by that," one of them muttered.

"Yeah," the other added, quickly stepping back, hands held open, theatrically unarmed, demons take it. "Just following orders."

"Boy, have I heard that one before," Vimes ground out, the beast still howling inside him, demanding _blood._ "You alright, Reg?"

Reg Shoe, dropped unceremoniously at the cobblestones, nodded. His head was bowed.

"We were just-just-" the guard number one stammered, perhaps understanding the expression on Vimes' face. "We just- any disturbance, we were- orders-"

"Demons take your orders!" Vimes exploded, roughly pulling Reg up, steadying him with hands that wanted to shake. The man swayed, leaned on Vimes, smelling of dirt and blood and desperation. "What about some commons sense, eh? Basic decency? What about making sure the orders you’re following aren't bloody stupid?"

"'s not our job."

Vimes stilled.

"... What?"

"We're just guards. 'S not our job."

Reg winced under his hand, shifted uneasily. Vimes let him go.

He suddenly felt queasy, faint with it.

Not their job.

Well, true enough, and this kind of thinking had been helpful lately, got him from one crooked day to another without entirely losing his bloody mind, but-

"Are you alright, sergeant?" Reg asked. "Only, you've gone all funny and I didn't notice any of them get you. Sergeant?"

"What seems to be the problem here?" a voice from behind them barked.

Vimes turned and blinked at- was that a sergeant? No, a captain? He squinted against the harsh morning sun.

"Well?" the- all the demons take it, another bloody idiot in a uniform demanded, hand on the handle of his sword. The guards behind him didn't manage to block the crowd, no longer silent, no longer pretending to be blind. The people were looking in their direction, muttering, faces set, tired.

All eyes were on Vimes.

"The problem," he said, straightening, "is behind you, on that stairs."

The captain stared, eyes wide. By the gods, the kid seemed barely old enough to shave, his family must have some solid connections to get him that commission. The kid probably regretted that just about now.

"The curfew is a problem," Vimes said, walking forward, forcing the baby captain to step aside or draw his sword. "The ban on wearing weapons is a problem. Hight taxes and rats and hungry kids are a problem, captain. The Unmentionables and the people who put bone-breakers in their hands are one hell of a problem."

The people in the crowd were staring, muttering, _nodding_ , as if they agreed, as if they weren't the ones who did that, who gave the Unmentionables all the power they needed, not necessarily by saying _yes_ , but certainly by not saying _no,_ demons take them all.

"It's a damn high time that someone did something about that," Vimes heard himself say.

And that someone was apparently going to be him. Fuck him sideways. He really _was_ that stupid.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for all your kind words and kudos, you guys are amazing!
> 
> This chapter was difficult to write. I re-wrote it at least eight times, and I'm still not happy with it, but I have to publish or spend the rest of eternity tinkering with it. So here it is, in its all un-beted glory.

The world was sliding away from him.

The noise rose around him, the press of people behind him increased. People were pushing one another, shouting _Yeah! That’s right!_ before melting back into the multifaced, uncaring creature called mob.

He shivered.

Someone rushed past him, straight at the cordon of the guards around the base of the stairs, and he barely managed to catch the bloody idiot.

“What the _hell_ do you think you are doing?” he shouted, blood pulsing in his ears.

“But- but, you _said_ -“ the fool in his hands stuttered. “ _You_ said that something- They are no better than mad old Winder, we _all_ heard, and- And _you said_! Something _must_ be done!”

“And that’s the reason to rush at the armed men?” Vimes bellowed. The bloody fool could not be older than Young Sam was. Had been. “Does that seem like a good idea?”

The boy didn’t answer, eyes too wide on a too-young face. Vimes let him go.

A cobblestone flew from the crowd and only luck prevented it from hitting the guard. Still, the intention was clear. Another stone sailed just a bit short. By gods, if he didn’t do something, and fast, they’d have another Dolly Sister Massacre at their hands. And it would be entirely his bloody fault.

“The next man that throws something, I’ll get him and throw him into the river!” he roared, absolutely _done_. “Even if I have to break the crust before! Stand _down_!”

There was an unhappy outcry from behind him, but no more stones. For now.

He glanced up at Snapcase, surrounded by nobs and civic figures, condescending from behind the cordon of guards. Was he- Vimes narrowed his eyes. By the gods, he was. The bloody bastard was _smiling._

“The famed sergeant Keel,” Snapcase said slowly, with the kind of upper-class accent that seemed designed to grate on Vimes’ ears. “We have heard about you and your- exploits. It would seem that the tales of your tactical talents were greatly exaggerated.”

“Yeah?” Vimes called back, putting all the years of a childhood spent in the gutters and corners of the Shades into his voice, just because. “Why?”

“Committing treason in front of all these good, honest people…” Snapcase shook his head, face a picture of sincere concern.

“Good, honest people?” Vimes repeated incredulously. “By gods, can you hear yourself? And _what_ treason?”

“Inciting people to unrest is-“

“Telling the truth is _not_ a crime. Saying that murder and betrayal and oppression is _wrong_ is not a crime, either. But do you know what _is_ a crime?” Vimes called out with a maniac grin.

“Murdering Captain Carcer, perhaps? Who was executing my orders?” Snapcase raised an eyebrow, but his face was all wrong, too square, too mobile. He had nothing on Vetinari in a sarcastic, freezing rage that Vimes had provoked only a time or two and still remembered fondly.

Snapcase, for all the speeches and guards and ornamental blades, was not a Patrician, not truly. He was too small, too self-absorbed. He did not give his all to the city. He did not receive the city’s gravitas, its potential, its bloody history and convoluted streets and stubborn people.

Snapcase was not the city.

“Executing is about right. Sending Carcer out to kill people _was_ a crime,” Vimes called out into the expectant silence, into that impostor’s face. “These poor buggers fought for you! They were simple and brave and stupid, and they believed you! And you had them killed!”

“By gods, man, you cannot-“

“Torturing people is a crime!” Vimes continued, his fingers tingling, his mind flying, recalling every detail he had ever heard about Mad Lord Snapcase and what they had found in his dungeons, at the end. “Breaking peoples’ bones and cutting off their fingers and sewing them back wrong to see what happens is a crime!”

“What are you-“ Snapcase began, but he was palling, eyes just a bit too wide in surprise. Real or pretended? Had he not started with his mad, mad hobby yet? Vimes wasn’t sure, but ideas like that didn’t just appear in a man’s head overnight. There must already be some corpses in his closet.

What _else_ had Vimes heard about him?

“Killing children is a crime! Taking siblings and sewing them together by their back sure as hell is a crime!” he called, and now he could feel it, the enraged attention of the crowd at his back, the uncertain glances thrown around by the guards. Some things were too terrible for people to tolerate. Some things demanded blood.

He went for the kill.

“Smothering your twin in your bed was a crime!”

Snapcase took a step back.

There. Everyone saw that, and the beast at Vimes’ back roared, hungry for retribution, barely restrained. He had to act _now._

He stepped forward, pulling out his badge.

“You are under arrest,” he announced loudly. “On charges of murder, conspiracy to commit murder, treason, breach of trust-“

“I’m the Patrician!” Snapcase croaked, eyes still too wide and face deathly pale. His voice shook with either fear or fury. “You cannot arrest _me!_ ”

“Are you resisting arrest?”

“Are you daft, man? I don’t know how you- You’ll tell me how you- We’ll have a talk before you die, Keel, and I’ll make you regret your imprudence. Guards!”

Damn.

The guards were uncertain, not reacting to Snapcase call but not stepping aside either, and Vimes couldn’t wait, could not _afford_ to wait, the mob at his back had to be directed _now_ or it would all spill over, burning the palace and half of the city in its wake. He stepped forward, towards the wall of shining, sharp steel, and hoped for a miracle.

It came to him with a familiar voice and a flash of lilac.

“Surely there’s no need to spill blood,” Madame said, calmly emerging from the group behind Snapcase. Her face was white and the friendly smile on her face sat wrong, but her stride was sure. “I cannot believe that-“

“Silence!”

Snapcase spun around and slapped her, hard. She cried out and staggered to her knees, a dainty hand clutching her cheek. There were angry outcries from the nobs and a few drawn swords.

“I’ll have silence!” Snapcase screamed, mad with sudden fury. “I know you, traitors and conspirators, the lot of you! Vipers!”

“How dare you! One does not rise a hand-“

“Have you lost your mind-“

“You killed old Winder!” Snapcase screamed. “You! And now you want to kill me! I’ll have you lot strung up! Guards! To me!”

Vimes eyes found the new captain of the palace guard, a rough-looking man with squinty eyes and a nose that had been broken at least twice. He was standing with his men, posture rigid, his face a step away from panic and shouted orders and a massacre. Damn and double damn.

“Do not, captain,” Vimes ordered, still walking forward, now less than six steps from the wall of guards. “Don’t even _think_ about it.”

The man’s hand trembled on the hilt of his sword, his eyes boring into Vimes. Six steps. Time to bluff. Time to walk calmly, as through he had every right to go where he pleased, as though he knew where he was going. Four steps. Walk and hope the other man had even a scrap of sense.

Two steps.

The captain stepped aside.

Vimes could breathe again. The other guards shuffled aside as well, their hands slowly dropping from undrawn weapons, their eyes avoiding his. They made a clean break that Vimes marched right through.

“Treason!” Snapcase hissed, taking a few steps back, his eyes flashing wildly around. He drew his sword.

“You are under arrest,” Vimes tried one more time, for all he knew it wouldn’t work. “Drop your sword and-“

Snapcase lunged.

Vimes was ready, because the beast was always ready, always hungry. He twisted aside and the blade missed him by millimetres, then came swishing at his back and slid off the armour with a scraping noise. The crowd roared.

Vimes didn’t hear, didn’t notice anything other than Snapcase’s panting breathing and the thunder of blood in his ears. Snapcase stabbed again, the long blade flashing, darting in, aiming at Vimes’ legs and under his arms, at the places left unprotected by his street uniform. He was a good swordsman, quick and vicious, too mad to be afraid. That didn’t leave Vimes many options.

He lunged away, barely avoiding a stab at his neck. His own sword remained at his side, heavy in its scabbard.

“Fight like a man, damn you!” Snapcase spat out.

Vimes didn’t answer, his face set. He feinted left and got a cut on his arm, deep, damn it, but he had ducked under Snapcase’s guard and- Yes, he got one clean blow across Snapcase face.

The man staggered and Vimes pressed forward, a cosh in his hand dropping at Snapcase’s hand, forcing him to drop his sword, probably breaking a few fingers in the process. Vimes kicked the blade away.

“Whatever they promised you, you won’t get any promotion, any command,” Snapcase hissed, blood dripping from his split lip, his right hand cradled to his chest. “No-one would tolerate you under their feet!”

Vimes didn’t answer. Snapcase took a step back.

“You’re not suitable. You’re _nothing_!”

“Yes,” Vimes said heavily. “But then, I’d hate to measure up to _your_ standards.”

He glanced away, at the guards and watchmen and soldiers observing from the side-lines.

“We need some handcuffs here!” he called, loud and clear. “His Lordship has a cell with his name on it in the Tanty.”

Then he turned away, towards the silent crowd.

Snapcase impressed him. He didn’t yell until he was just a step away from Vimes, right at his back. The dragger in his hand rose, ready to bury itself in Vimes’ neck.

Vimes twisted, his hands grasping the thin wrist, twisting, turning it around and down, and in.

People like Snapcase _always_ had a second dagger.

Snapcase looked at him with wide, hate-filled eyes. He staggered close, caught Vimes’ shoulder in one clawed hand. His other wrist jerked in Vimes hold. He coughed up a speck of blood, then another.

Vimes let go.

Snapcase fell to his knees, then, slowly, so very slowly, to his side. He tried to say something. Couldn’t. He blinked once, then again, and then his eyes remained open.

The people sighed, as one.

Vimes stepped away and, with hands slick with blood, took out the silver cigar case and opened it. He looked at the inscription inside, at the dark smears he left on the light metal.

There had once been a man named Sam Vimes. He had been given, for some incomprehensive reason, the love of an amazing, kind woman, and a watch to shape, and a duty to uphold. He had strived to be a good man, despite everything.

Sam Vimes laid dead in a morgue, awaiting a humble, lonely funeral.

“Sergeant?” a gentle voice asked.

He looked blankly up at Madame, at her careful posture and bruised cheek and expectant expression.

“Your people are watching, my lord,” she said, very quietly. For his ears only. “They are waiting. They’ve been waiting for a long time.”

He became aware of the heavy silence all around him, of the weight of eyes boring into him. He snapped the case shut and hid it away, along with his ghosts.

“Right,” he sighed, looking around.

All these faces… In a sudden flash, he recalled Vetinari in a dungeon, telling him about evil people on opposite sides, and about good people and their inability to plan. And he had been right, damn him, overthrowing the tyrant was the _easy_ part. The bastard would laugh himself sick if he could see him now, Vimes was sure.

He glanced at the dead body at his feet, at the peaceful stillness of death. Some people had all the luck.


End file.
